Page 2 of Forced Vows

Ares.

He's wearing a black suit, either tailored high end designer or bespoke because it fits him perfectly despite his extra broad shoulders. He's not wearing a tie and the top two buttons on his shirt are undone, revealing the strong column of his neck and a hint of dark chest hair.

The gray silk shirt is smooth over his muscular chest, no straining buttons and no wrinkles from having to tuck too much fabric in at the waist either. Thighs ropy with muscle that only my mind's eye can see are encased in dark slacks.

My gaze finally travels up to his handsome features. His gorgeous lips capable of eliciting so much pleasure are set in a firm line and he's not looking at me.

A breath of relief escapes my lungs.

At least I have a few seconds to pull myself together before he notices me.

Will he say something? Will he pretend not to know me?

His gaze, along with everyone else's, locks on me expectantly in the suddenly silent room. Everyone else is looking at me too.

Heat crawls up the back of my neck and into my cheeks. "Uh…hello."

"Severu, this is my niece, Róise. Róise, this is Don De Luca, his underboss, Miceli De Luca and the Genovese consigliere, Sal De Luca."

"Keeping it all in the family," pops out of my mouth, but my brain is scrambling to make sense of the introductions.

My uncle did not point as he introduced each man, like I'm supposed to know who is who. My guess is that the consigliere is the older man.

That leaves the two men who look like brothers. The don and his underboss.

Which one is Ares?

"Family is important," the man who is not Ares and not Sal De Luca says.

The don?

But that would mean that Ares is the other man. The man I'm supposed to marry?

I cannot believe this. I traveled nearly three-thousand miles to a city with no mafia or mob presence and didn't just give my virginity to a Cosa Nostra soldier, but ended up sleeping with my future fiancé?

Fate isn't done screwing with me either because there is not a single glimmer of recognition in Miceli De Luca's eyes.

"A pleasure to meet you, Róise," Ares…no, Miceli…says in his deep tone, stepping forward with his hand outstretched.

I don't move.

Uncle Brogan nudges my shoulder. Not gently. I stumble forward, my hand rising of its own volition toward Miceli.

He takes it, his big hand dwarfing mine, just like it did the night in Portland.

His fingers are an inch longer than mine. I know because I measured my hand against his during one of our lulls in lovemaking.

Am I going to have to tell him that it was me in Portland? I can't imagine anything more demoralizing in this situation. My classmate's job on my makeup and the blonde wig made me even more unrecognizable than I thought.

"Nice to meet you, Miceli." My voice catches on his name.

I can't help it. That night two months ago was a fantasy, but this is reality. This man is not Ares, god of war and Aphrodite's lover.

He is Miceli De Luca, Genovese underboss and my future husband.

Miceli's espresso eyes narrow and he looks more closely at me, his hand on mine tightening when I try to pull away.

His gaze boring into mine, he turns my hand so my inner forearm is exposed. I know what he'll see when he looks down.

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